


Millstone

by mytimehaspassed



Series: Degausser [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Prostitution, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-24
Updated: 2010-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23117782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/John Winchester/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Degausser [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661704
Kudos: 3





	Millstone

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know. You follow him blindly, you follow him like nothing ever really happened, like you always have before. You follow him from Kansas into California, into your new life, into this gritty world of hunting he’s never shown you before, the bars he visits, the people he meets. This is something he’d never have shown Sam, you know that, this is something he’d never have shown you if you weren’t all he has. You and your little soldier act, you’re a carbon copy of your father right down to the emotional scars, the ache you feel in your heart and the mask you wear to protect it, you’re a carbon copy right down to the way you never talk about Sam, about Mom. You and your little warrior act, you’re a sheep in wolf’s clothing but only your father will ever know this, only your father really knows who you are. Now that Sam’s gone, anyway.

It takes your father four months to track down all the information, all the shit he needs, four months to the exact moment you shot your baby brother, four months to the exact day you saved your father for the biggest price you’ve ever paid. Four months, but you never really get over these things, right?

From Kansas to here, your father’s picked up more scars, more wrinkles and worry lines and battle wounds, your father and his uncanny ability to dig himself into an early grave, this is like a fucking countdown. By some grace of the God you don’t believe in, you’re exactly the same as before. Not a physical scratch on you. From Kansas to here, your father visits seedy little out of the way motels for information, dirty hunters that look at you hungrily, that move their eyes from you to your father and back again, nothing you haven’t done before. From Kansas to here, your father slips condoms into the back pocket of your jeans while you sleep, the cheap one shot kind that comes from vending machines and sends you out at night to pay his debts, the trade for everything he needed to know. Your father and the way he pretends to sleep when you creep back into the room in the morning, the way you don’t touch him and he doesn’t look at you, he only ever really loved Sam, and maybe you’re just thinking that you shot the wrong fucking person back in Kansas. Your father and the way he never kisses you anymore, if only to close his eyes and think of Sam, if only to pretend your skin is really your brother’s, he hasn’t touched you since that night, since he burned his son into pieces of ash that scattered all over Kansas with the wind.

All this human tragedy, all this irony, it’s so fucking poetic that it makes you choke. All this personal heartbreak, your own little fucking landmark, your own tragic memorial, all this is for your father. Everything you do in life, every order you follow, every step you take, it’s all for your father, and maybe you’re thinking it’s about time you gave up on the hopeful wishing, maybe you’re thinking that your father has only ever used you for his dirty work and it’s about time to just give in to that fact, to accept your fate. From Kansas to here, maybe this little road trip has only proven how little he thinks of you, has only proven that he’s never really loved you, after all. From Kansas to here, maybe you’re thinking that you killed the only thing he ever cared about in life, this little road trip to all these seedy motels, all these strange bedrooms, maybe you’re thinking it’s about time you just gave up.

It takes your father four months to track down all the information, you and your price to pay, nothing you haven’t ever done before, it takes your father four months to sell you out for his final hunt, this denouement you’ve been waiting for, the end to all this suffering, the end to your own national tragedy. What’s funny is, you feel like you’ve been waiting for this your whole life. Even before Sam died, even before you shot him in that fucking motel room, even before you saved your father’s life, you and that tiny little body you held in your arms as you rushed from that fire, you and Sam and maybe you’re thinking that you weren’t supposed to save him that night. From Kansas to here, maybe you’re thinking saving little Sammy wasn’t in the books, wasn’t part of the deal, because what a stupid and utterly tragic way to end up, you and the life you gave him all those years ago, you and the life you took away. Maybe you’re thinking, even if you were supposed to save Sammy, maybe you’re thinking you made the wrong choice, maybe it was your father who was supposed to die, who shouldn’t have escaped the clutches of the fire that night. What’s funny is, maybe both your parents should have died that night, and, hey, maybe you’re thinking that you could get real used to that idea if only Sammy came back.

From Kansas to here, your life is just as shitty as you want it to be, sleeping and eating and fucking, these men that pull your hair and make you suck cock for a living, not even your own living, really, this is nothing you haven’t done before, nothing you haven’t been training for since fifteen, sixteen years old, this is nothing your father hasn’t taught you. Really, from Kansas to here, this is nothing you wouldn’t do a thousand times over just to have your brother back, to have your father pay for all the crimes he’s committed, to have him wallowing in his own tragedy, his own national disaster. What’s funny is, before your father ever touched you, you dreamed of a wife and a family. What’s funny is, before all of this shit, before your father and the way he can’t keep his hands to himself, before you ever left, before Sammy and his desperate pleas on your cell phone, you dreamed of raising a family someday, raising your children the way your father raised you, like hunters, like warriors. From Kansas to here, really, what’s funny is, your dreams are dissipating every time your father slips a condom into your pocket, every time you open your mouth wide and think of him touching you again, think of him and his hands and the way he whispers Sam’s name in your ear. What’s funny is, every time another hunter grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves your face in his groin, you moan your father’s name and picture Sam’s sweet face. Before all this, really, you had the best family you could ever ask for.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know and, really, before all this, everything was fucking perfect. Really, from Kansas to here, you’ve ruined every life you’ve ever touched.

***

You and your father, nights like these, you go through two, three bottles of tequila, whiskey, anything you can get your hands on. You and your father, at least you’ve earned one thing from him, and that’s drowning your sorrows in cheap alcohol. Nights like these, you listen to every message Sam has ever left on your cell phone, every cry for help, every exasperated whisper, you’ve never once erased anything he’s sent you, anything he’s given you. Nights like these, your father is finally able to touch you again, his fingertips gliding against your soft stubble, the junction where your neck meets the underside of your chin, your prominent collarbone, all this flesh, nights like these your father doesn’t even mistake you for your brother.

You and your father, nights like these, it’s so fucking hard to forget that you killed your own brother when the skin underneath your mouth is your father’s, is your own flesh and blood. Nights like these, it’s just so fucking stupid, all this shit, all this tragic loss, nothing is ever gonna feel right again, nothing is ever gonna be worth it. Nights like these, you and your father, you ask him whatever happened to the demon, whatever happened to his fucking quest, you and your father with his hands slowly creeping up your thighs, down your chest, you ask him if he even cares that your mother’s death has never been avenged. Nights like these, this is what your father loves the most, this is what your father wishes for in the daylight, this is why he wants the condoms he gives you to be for him. You and your stupid cell phone, your brother’s voice like he’s still here, like he’s still with you, this is making it so much worse. You and your father and his stupid desires, the way you bite and scratch and make him bleed, his skin is starting to become your most favorite weapon.

You and your father, nights like these, maybe you’re starting to wish you’d never been born.

***

Your father and all the shit he’s keeping from you, this is too fucking much. And, hey, maybe you’re just starting to think that your family’s a shit magnet, and, hey, maybe there’s nothing you can do about it.

***

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, he starts shopping for boys that look exactly like Sam. First, you think it’s a replacement for Sam, for the brother you don’t have anymore, for the son your father has lost, but after a while, you realize it’s really only a replacement for you.

You start dreaming of your father at night, nights that find you in other hunter’s beds, the strangers that have lost their own sons, their own families, the strangers that are only using you for the worst kind of comfort. Nights like these, you dream of your father, his touch and his skin, his mouth on your flesh, nights like these, you dream of Sam and his stupid sense of naiveté, his stupid sense of right and wrong. If Sam had just never fought back, if you had just never left, nights like these, you dream of the ways your father will kill you, the ways your father will embrace this new son, this new life. You start dreaming of everything your father will take from you, everything you’ve taken from him.

Nights like these, your father starts drinking more and more. You find empty bottles rolling around bags filled with weapons, littering the backseat of the Impala, you find bottles tucked between the sheets of your bed. Your father and his stupid sense of self-destruction, he’s killing himself and you can’t do anything but watch. Your father and his stupid sense of vengeance, you’re so fucking tired of this. Nights like these, you dodging bottles of cheap liquor when your father can’t seem to touch you anymore, when your father can’t even seem to look at you, you and your stupid sense of justice, this isn’t what you signed up for when you decided to take over your mother’s position in the family. And maybe you’re just thinking that becoming your mom, losing your brother, fucking shooting him for the sake of your father, maybe you’re just thinking that this wasn’t worth it, that this is all just bullshit. Nights like these, you and your father and his drunken fights, his pleas for a better life than this, than you, well, maybe you’re just thinking that this whole God thing is a fucking sham, what with your track record and all.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, he goes through boys like bottles of beer, quick and painless. He invites them back to your room, these all-American home-town boys, their athletic build and pretty faces, these precious boys, he invites them in and plies them with liquor and he watches you touch them. Nights like these, your father gets this glaze over his eyes, nights like these, sitting in an armchair with empty bottles strewn all over him, he’s calling the shots here and you and these boys, well, you all know it. Nights like these, you and your father and all these Sam look-alikes, these wannabes, well, you don’t know what your father’s planning, you don’t know what’s in store for you, but you know it can’t be good, what he’s doing, selling you out for information, hunting for all these boys, well, none of this will end well. You and your father and these boys you find on the street, their tattered clothing and messy hair, their skin smudged with dirt and bruises, this is a Sam you never wanna see, a Sam you never wanna have to find, living from hand-out to hand-out, getting paid for shitty hand jobs given to creepy men just like your father, getting paid to do what you do for free.

These boys, well, there’s nothing they won’t do for a fifty dollar bill. Your father takes all his hard-earned cash, all the money he makes from credit card scams and hustling pool, all the money he carries in the same pocket as the condoms, nights like these, he’ll throw away hundreds of dollars just to watch you blow some guy you’ve never met, just to find the right guy to replace you. Nights like these, your father watches with that shine in his eyes, with those bottles, with your condoms in his pocket, and, hey, if anything else, maybe you’re just glad that you’ll be getting out of this life soon. These boys, well, there’s nothing they won’t do for a little bit of release. These boys, your hand down their pants, their necks arched just so slightly, their gaping mouths, well, you and your stupid sense of imagination, sometimes you forget this really isn’t Sam. Sometimes, in the right moment, the right light, well, sometimes you forget your father’s scrutinizing gaze and the money tucked into their belts, and, hey, maybe you just want your old life back so bad that you can actually taste. These boys, it tastes like tears.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, after he finally finds the right one, the right Sam, well, there’s nothing to stop him from taking him with you on this little journey. There’s nothing to stop him from forcing this boy, this Sam, to go along with all of this. You and your father, you’re masters of espionage and, hey, what’s a kidnapping charge on top of it all?

This boy, he tells you his name is Dallas, but you’re not so sure if you believe him, not with all the shit you’ve pulled in your lifetime, not with all the masks you’ve hidden behind. This boy, Dallas, he looks like Sam in the way that his face is so innocent, so naïve, but you know this is just a trick to lure in those rich sugar daddies, those men just like your father, you know this is just his way of fooling everybody enough to keep them at arms length. You’ve used this trick yourself at times, you and your stupid sense of intuition, Sam used to say that you were great at playing dumb, and, hey, you’ve never stopped, not even after he died. Sam and his stupid sense of intellect, well, hey, he used to say he knew you inside and out, and, well, hey, maybe you’re just glad that the only person who got that close to you can’t spill your secrets anymore. Maybe you’re just glad you’re ready to keep this mask on for the rest of your life. This boy, Dallas, your father tells him his new name is Sam, his new family is you, and he’ll find himself on the wrong end of a shotgun if he even thinks about leaving. Dallas – Sam – well, he just shrugs and says as long as your father keeps slipping him fifties, he’ll let you call him anything. As long as your father keeps forking over the beer, half-empty and flat and mixed with whatever drugs he could get his hands on, well, this boy, this Sam, he’s just fine with pretending. This boy, he’s just fine with your hands on his skin, his mouth on your neck, this boy, nights like these, well, he’d rather you than some dirty old trucker with a nasty habit of beating boys like him to death.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, after this new boy, this new Sam, after your father tells you that you’re heading back to Kansas, heading back to Sam’s grave, to the site where you shot him, well, maybe you’re just not ready for any of this. Maybe you’re just not ready to give this all up just yet, and, hey, maybe you just don’t want to be replaced.

***

Nights like these, Dallas climbs into the back of the Impala with you, you and your father and his steady concentration on the road, he’s not fooling anyone, least of all you. Nights like these, Dallas climbs into your lap and traces the scars on your skin, the accidents of boyhood, the outlines of your own national disasters, he brushes his fingertips over the bumps and curves of your arms, your face, and he asks you what your life has been like so far, how everything has turned out. Nights like these, it’s you and your father and your pretend Sam, this boy who’s being paid to pass off for your brother, this boy with nothing left to lose, and, hey, maybe your life isn’t as bad as everyone thinks. Dallas and his sandy blonde hair, the strands that cover his eyes, well, he’s just as beautiful as Sam ever was, and, hey, maybe you’re just thinking that this could all be worse.

Dallas and his fingers and your skin, your father’s stiff neck as he wills himself not to turn around, not to check the rearview, well, hey, maybe this was a good idea after all. Dallas and his mouth on your jaw line, he tells you everything about himself, every detail, he tells you that this is a much better adventure than the one he got in California, a much better adventure than selling himself on the streets. You and your stupid sense of will power, well, it’s really hard not to just let yourself succumb to his advances, not to just let go of everything, Dallas and his tongue, well, it’s really hard not to just give in. Nights like these, Dallas and sights set on you, well, it’ll be really hard to leave all of this, it’ll be really hard to just forget.

You and your father, you and this boy, if this is supposed to be Sam, well, you’ve got the most fucked up family that you’ve ever seen, the most fucked up sense of morals than anybody you’ve ever encountered. You and your father and Dallas, this new brother, this new Sam, nights like these, well, you’ve got the most spectacularly fucked up sense of denial in the whole world. Dallas and his hands, your skin, your chest and back and, Jesus, but this kid is everything you’ve always wanted, and isn’t that the most ironic thing, because as soon as you get back to Kansas, well, you’re out of the equation, you’re just out of the picture. You and your father and everything you’ve ever dreamed of, every aspect of this family you’ve ever hoped for, just you and your father and Sam, well, this boy completes the whole thing, the whole image, and, hey, maybe you’re just thinking that you got the shit deal here, that you got bad end of all of this. Hey, maybe you’re just thinking that none of this is really fair anymore, and, hey, maybe you’re just thinking that nothing will ever turn out this good again.

You and your father and this new boy, this new Sam, his fingers on your skin, his mouth on yours, well, hey, maybe you’re just thinking you should enjoy this while it lasts.

***

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, well, you just can’t stop dreaming about Sam. And, hey, you just can’t stop dreaming about Dallas. Sam and his innocence, you never once told him that you loved him, you never once let him know that the way he felt, the way you felt about your father, you never once got to say that it was okay. You and Sam, there are so many regrets you have, there are so many things you wished you could have said before you left, before you killed him. You and this new boy, this new Sam, well, here’s the chance you’ve always wanted.

You and Dallas, he sleeps in your bed all the way to Kansas, the shitty motels you stop in, the shitty motels your father avoids like the plague, choosing instead to go drown his sorrows at the nearest bar, leaving you and your new brother all alone. Leaving you two by yourselves, there’s no chance of fucking up now, there’s no way you’ll ever leave his side now, not with what you know. You and Dallas, well, you whisper words into his hair just like your father, just like you’ve always wanted to do to Sam. You and Dallas, nights like these, you tell him that you’ll never leave him, that you’ll never let go this time, that you’ll never give him up. Dallas, his skin is so flawless, his face is so beautiful, and, hey, maybe you’re just really good at pretending, maybe you’re just really good at wishful thinking. You and Dallas, he’ll never be the real Sam, but you’ll be damned if you don’t try your hardest to imagine that he is.

Dallas likes to kiss every inch of your body, something Sam never did, something your father used to do, Dallas likes to lick and bite and kiss you so hard he steals your breath away. You and your new brother, well, your father never said you couldn’t, and, hey, maybe you’re just getting used to the idea of what being in this family calls for. You and Dallas, nights like these, well, maybe you’re just thinking the way your father does, doing what your father wants, and, hey, maybe you’re just turning into your father.

Dallas and his perfect body, he slides his hand down your chest, your stomach, his mouth against yours, he says, “Maybe this is just the way everything was supposed to work out.” You and your head thrown back, the way you bite your lip until it bleeds, all this shit you’ve been through, your father and his stupid quest for the perfect family, the perfect son, you and your stupid sense of rational, you say, I don’t think so. Dallas and his perfect mouth, he says, “Maybe this is just the way God wanted it.” You and your hands on him, all these sins you’ve committed, all these acts of treason, you and your mouth and Dallas’ skin, you and your stupid sense of logic, you say, You believe in God? Dallas and his beautiful eyes, he’ll never be Sam, and he says, “With all the shit I’ve seen, everything I’ve done, I better.”

You and your stupid sense of skepticism, you and your hands and the way he smiles under your touch, you say, Don’t bother, you and your stupid sense of cynicism, you say, It’s not worth it. The way you gasp for air, you say, Nothing gets better from here.

***

You and your father and Dallas, well, maybe you’re just thinking about how all of this will look once you’re gone. You and every order you’ve ever followed, you and your stupid little soldier act, well, maybe you’re just not comfortable leaving your father with another son to ruin, and, hey, maybe you’re just not up to the challenge of martyrdom anymore.

***

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know. After that, after he has his new son, after he has you and Dallas and everything, after he’s driven back to Kansas on a stomach full of beer and caffeine pills, well, your father tells you there’s something he needs you to do. This Reincarnation Rite, well, your father tells you that this is the reason you’ve whored yourself out for all those months, this little smile on his face, this little grin. He’s ecstatic and Dallas is looking to you like maybe he’s not so sure about this anymore, like maybe he feels like it’s time to get off the ride. You and your stupid sense of disparagement, you have to hold yourself back from telling him that you’ve been living this nightmare your whole life and you’ll be damned if he’s backing out on this one, you and your stupid sense of scorn, well, you have to bite your tongue from asking him if this is adventurous enough.

You and your stupid sense of contempt, you’re asking yourself where you went wrong, where you stopped noticing your father and started obsessing over Dallas. You and your own national tragedy, well, it’s too late for that, but you’re asking yourself how you let all of this pass by, how you let him do this.

Your father and his little smile, well, he says you were always bad at seeing the big picture, your father and his little grin, his wrinkles and scars and stories, well, he says you’ve never been smart enough at figuring this shit out on your own. You and your stupidity, well, he hasn’t said anything that you can deny, he hasn’t said anything that’s not the truth. You and your father, you’ve always been able to trust his judgment, always been able to follow his orders, even if they ended up kicking your ass, and, hey, maybe you’re just ready to start growing up.

This Reincarnation Rite, your father and everything he needs to know, well, hey, maybe you’re just thinking about someone else for once, and, hey, maybe you’re just thinking about Dallas. You and your new brother, well, once you get him over to your side, once he trusts you, after your father finally figures everything out, after all of this, well, it’s not that hard to get him to follow your orders, to become your little soldier. After all of this, these four months, well, it’s not that hard to get him prepped for his little denouement. You and your father and Dallas, well, what’s this family without someone’s life being threatened, right?

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, he tells you everything. These symbols he draws on your chest, the floor of the same motel room you shot your brother in, the same fucking room, well, hey, no matter what you do, you can’t escape this perpetual feeling of déjà vu, you can’t escape fate. This is your father gone insane, his search for the perfect family, his backwards quest, this is your father and this is everything he won’t give up, this is everything he won’t back down from. You were wrong, essentially, and, hey, isn’t that always the case, but you were so very wrong, about you, about Dallas, and you’re so very sorry. You whisper that to him, brush your lips against his hair just like your father does to you, kiss the crown of his head, touch his skin, just like always, and Dallas and his sense of trust, he’s stupid enough to believe you, even as he lays in the center of all of this. Even with his hands and feet tied, his mouth gagged, the tears that run down his face, he’s nodding his head and he’s pleading with you, and you can feel it, you can taste it, you and your stupid sense of intuition, you know that he still loves you.

You know where this is going. You’ve known for a while now, somewhere in the back of your mind, recognition about one of the symbols your father gathered, one of the symbols he drew on your chest, the Sharpie thick as blood, these black lines that grow deep on your skin. You’ve known ever since he found Dallas, sort of, maybe, somewhere in that skull of yours, you knew what your father was up to, him and his stupid mission, his final hunt, his denouement. You and your stupid sense of trust, maybe you shouldn’t be so harsh on Dallas for believing you, when you’re in the same boat with your father, when all you’ve ever wanted to do was put all your faith in him. Why should you be so hard on Dallas when you’ve just been stepping into your father’s shoes this whole time, creating your own little soldier, searching for your own perfect family, why should you judge?

Dallas and his stupid sense of naïveté, well, at least Sam would know what was happening, at least Sam could guess, but Dallas and all the things he’s never seen, all the aspects of your life you’ve kept from him, and, hey, maybe you’re just a little envious. Maybe with everything you’ve been through, every demon you’ve hunted, well, maybe ignorance really is bliss. Dallas and his stupid sense of innocence, maybe you’d just rather be him right now.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, well, it takes him five minutes to set everything right again, to set everything back to normal. Dallas doesn’t feel any pain, really, you made sure of that, a quick two minutes of using your shirt to press down on his face, cutting off all oxygen, and, well, he doesn’t even struggle that hard. You and your father, you’ve always been in this together, but killing humans has never been your strong suit, killing people that might not deserve it, killing for personal gain, but, hey, you’ve never said everything you do is always right. You and your father, he moves on like he’s been trained, setting up the candles, the gifts, setting up everything he’ll need, and, hey, his mouth so close that you could almost taste it, he’s saying, Don’t take too long, the body will get cold. And just like that, Dallas is a body, just material for your own private use, you and your new brother, well that didn’t last too long, now did it?

You and your father, his little grin, he says, Don’t worry, his hands on your chest, pressing hard, pressing gentle, you and your stupid sense of comfort, he says, “Soon you’ll have your brother back. Soon it’ll all be over.” You and your stupid sense of relief, well, hey, maybe that’s just all you over wanted.

You and your stupid sense of reassurance, you and your father, your stupid little soldier act, well, it’s never been just an act now, has it? It’s never been just a façade, a mask, really, because it’s been your whole life. It’s been everything. You and your father and your stupid sense of reliance, your training, all of it has been leading up to this moment and, hey, maybe you’re just not ready for this yet, maybe you’re just too scared. Maybe you’re just not worth all of this, and, hey, maybe it was stupid of you to even think you were. Maybe you’re just too fucking stupid.

Your father, his little smile, this Reincarnation Rite, well, at least something good is coming out of all of this. At least your brother will have a life again, even if it is in someone else’s body, someone else’s skin. You and your father and all these rituals, all these calls on some higher-up, some god, well, hey, maybe you’re just too stupid to understand any of this, but at least whoever is helping you is willing to give back the only family you’ve ever known, the only loves in your life. You and your father, all these long months, after five minutes he turns to you and says, “It’s done.” Your life for the last four months, all these shitty things you’ve done, well, hey, at least you can say that you did all of this for Sam, for your father, and, hey, at least you’ll have something to show for it. You and your stupid sense of faith, well, you’re willing to believe in anything now, after all of this, after everything.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, well, Sam takes his first breath. Dallas’ body, your faux brother’s skin, his hair, his eyes, it’s Dallas’ voice that reaches your ears, but it’s Sam’s dialect, it’s Sam’s tone. Dallas’ hands reaching towards your face, caressing the bridge of your nose, the high of your cheekbone, your brow, but, really, it’s Sam’s touch, Sam’s movements. Nothing Dallas hasn’t done before, resting his mouth on yours, sliding his hand behind your neck, nothing Dallas has ever shied away from, but it’s Sam’s lips, Sam’s breath, and, well, hey, there’s a first time for everything.

Dallas’ voice whispered in your hair, but it’s Sam’s words, you and your stupid sense of release, there’s nothing manly about any of this, but you just can’t help the tears on your face. You and your stupid sense of reprieve, well, Dallas’ lips pressed hard against your skin, Sam says, “Dean?”


End file.
